Pages from the Book of Friendship
by duraburu
Summary: A short drabble with Nathan/Pickles undertones. Silces-of-life at Mordhaus and elsewhere. Will be continued as inspiration strikes. (Might even contain smut at one point, the rating will then change accordingly.)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Metalocalypse and all characters mentioned here belong to Brendon Small (and some other guys, probably). I make no money from this.

 **A/N:** First Metalocalypse fic, woo! Feedback's always welcome.

* * *

"Hey. Hey Nate."

No response.

"Oi, dood." Pickles kicked the taller man in the shin, which at least got one grumpy green eye to open and stare at him. "Move. You're crushing my legs _Nate_."

The red haired drummer made a vague gesture towards his lower body. The green eye blinked slowly.

"No."

Pickles tried to move his other leg, which was currently trapped beneath both of Nathan's. It was impossible to get away from the mix of fat and muscle without serious struggle, so Pickles decided that he was too drunk to bother. Besides, the king size hotel bed was really comfortable and he had several bottles of booze just within reach. Once he rummaged through his pockets, he found a handful of colorful pills as well. The green eye closed and Nathan resumed lying face down on the mattress, sprawled out like he only did when he was seriously fucking drunk. Pickles knew those things because they'd been friends forever and seen each other at their worst. Multiple times.

The red haired drummer squinted at the corners of the room, trying to guess in which country they were. Nothing but the blue glow of the tv illuminated the walls. There was some sort of animal documentary on and he watched a lion eat a zebra's carcass for a while. Nathan radiated warmth like a furnace. If Pickles reached out, he could grab the remote on the large singer's other side. That would require him to lean over Nate in a creepy and kinda gay way, like some sort of..

"Forces of evil, I command ya to bring me the remote!" He muttered dramatically and made grabby hands.

The forces of evil didn't seem very charitable tonight. Pickles slowly pushed himself up and stared down at the mess of black hair next to him. The smell of tequila and smoke hit his nostrils. Pickles frowned. Nathan didn't smoke, at least not cigarettes. That was what "regular jerkoffs" did, and therefore not brutal. They must've hit some shitty bars that night. He hardly remebered details, only flashing lights and writhing bodies against him. At either rate, the lions were getting boring and Nathan looked out of it. Pickles stretched over the singer, close enough to hear his deep even breaths and get a good whiff of booze. Once he had the remote, he drew back to his side of their bed. That was a thing, one of the rituals of their Friender Bender, even after they could afford seperate rooms. It was just as solid a part of the routine as the getting horrifically drunk and spending no more than a night in a single country. Pickles didn't think about it too hard. If Nathan was cool with it, he was cool with it, too, and that was that.

"Who cares, who cares," he muttered as he switched channels from one news station to the next.

It was all the same, anyway. Death, terror and hate. Nathan might get a kick out of it. Might even get new ideas for songs, if he wasn't so fucking out of it. He finally landed on a music channel, one of the few left who actually played music videos. There was some sort of stoner rock playing and Pickles let the bright colors lull him for a while. After patting around, he found a stray pillow and stuffed it under his back so he didn't have to keep leaning on his elbows. Sometimes he felt his age in aching joints and back pains that hadn't been there a few short years ago. Pickles made a face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Fucking hell, dood." He mumbled and popped a few pills in his mouth.

There had to be a painkiller in the mix somewhere. There always was. He hated feeling so fucking morose, which was why he liked to spend the night drugged out of his dumb mind. It took a while for the drugs to kick in. Pickles searched for his phone and started typing a few messages. Felt like his resistance was increasing, so it was time for stronger stuff again.

"Don't do that."

The drummer glanced down at the man staring up at him with both eyes now. He raised his brows in question. Nathan was the one who came up with the No-Caring-Policy.

"What, you some sorta mind reader now?" Pickles asked and hit send on a mass text. "Maybe I'm just textin' a coupla friends, eh?"

The black haired man scowled up at him, which by itself was not unusual. It was the barely hidden concern in his eyes that gave Pickles pause. The drummer shifted uneasily and hit lock screen.

"Nate, c'mon man. You're drunk as shit. Go to sleep and we'll get outta this dump in another couple hours, yeah?"

Nathan heaved a sigh and put his arm under his head. "Good plan," he grunted and closed his eyes.

Pickles kept staring him as the other man's breathing evened out. Nathan acting weird wasn't exactly news to him. It was just that he got _weirder_ when they were alone. He wondered if the younger man would give a shit if it was Murderface or Skwisgaar lying next to him. Hell, he probably wouldn't go on Friender Benders with them in the first place, much less share a bed. A strange kind of satisfaction settled in Pickles guts when he thought about it. This was special, he was an exception. Knowing that Nathan thought he was fucking special wasn't the appreciation he craved. His parents still didn't give a shit about him. But it _was_ something, and it fixed some of the broken parts in him. He leaned back against the pillow and let his mind drift away, drowsy and content in the knowledge that someone, at least, gave a shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** No money being made here. Metalocalypse ain't mine, either.

 **A/N:** I love how I'm only seeing the little details of Nathan and Pickle's relationship now that I've watched the entire series. It's really subtle blink-and-you-miss-it stuff. Tumblr has been a huge help, with screenshots and the like.

* * *

"We're not talking about this?"

Nathan grunted in reply. Pickles rolled his eyes and turned on his side, facing away from the large singer. It was dark in his bedroom save for the red dot of light on his flatscreen tv that told him he forgot to cut the energy again. He could hear Nathan's breathing as he laid there, on top of the covers, making the mattress sag around him. Pickles tried to close his eyes and let his mind drift off, but concern nagged at his brain. The No-Caring-Policy was a band thing, it had never applied to the two of them. By now he knew that Nathan would talk when he was ready and not any sooner. This was the fifth time this year that he sought him out at night. Pickles had gathered from what little information he was offered that Nathan sometimes had bad dreams. Really bad. It was no wonder, given the things he did and saw on a daily basis. It made him wonder why he thought that Pickles was going to be able to comfort him, though. It wasn't as if he was doing any better. The ginger drummer sighed and turned on his back to stare into the blackness above. Faint heat radiated from Nathan even at this distance. It was oddly comforting, which was pretty ironic given the situation. Finally there was an inhale and a short pause.

"Pickles.. Would you. Ugh." Nathan huffed.

"Would I what, dood?"

"I don't wanna tell you how to, uh, live your life or anything. You know I don't do that. But. Sometimes I dream that I find you, uh, dead on the kitchen floor or some shit. OD'd. Sometimes there's maggots. Maggots are fucking disgusting," Nathan made an appropriately disgusted noise. "Then I wake up and I'm sweaty as shit, because. Uh. Yeah."

"Ye dream about me?"

"It sounds fucking gay when you say it like that," Nathan complained. "The point is, uhh."

Pickles waited a few beats, but the singer remained quiet. He knew that Nathan never said anything about anyone's bad habits unless it really bothered him. They had a sort of quiet understanding. Pickles never complained about his violent Tequila rages, Nathan never complained about his drug abuse. Until now, apparently. The redhead tried not to feel offended and look at the meaning behind his words.

"Yer worried that ahm gonna OD one day," he stated slowly. "So ye don't think I know when to stop?"

Nathan grunted in a way that Pickles knew to interpret as a no. His lips twitched down and he flexed his fingers, sorely tempted to punch him.

"What the fuck, Nath'n? Seriously, what the fuck."

"I'm... hnnngh. I'm. Fuck." Nathan cursed loudly, followed by the thunk of wood being punched. "I fucking worry about you, alright?"

"Oh." It was quiet for a few beats, in which his brain felt sort of muddy, caught in a mix of tiredness and glee. "Ah didn't know that."

"The fuck you didn't. C'mon Pickles."

A meaty hand punched him lightly in the shoulder. Pickles grinned into the darkness with a strangely light and loose feeling in his chest.

"What about Abigail?"

"What about her?" Nathan sighed. "I said I don't want her."

"Yeah. Ah don't want 'er anymore either."

Pickles frowned when he thought back on those months where everything was weird and terrible in the band. How stupid it was in hindsight, that he nearly lost his family over a girl. Because those assholes were his family now, and as fucked up as they were, they were still better than his real one. Pickles licked his lips and considered just going to sleep already. All this talking about their feelings was getting weird and making him think about stuff he'd rather not think about.

"You feelin' better now? Ahm tired."

"So go to sleep."

He had half a mind to ask if Nathan was going to stay, but then he realized that he didn't really want an answer. It didn't matter, he could just pretend they were on a Friender Bender in some foreign hotel somewhere. The large lead singer didn't move, his breathing was even and calm. Listening to it lulled him slowly into sleep. As if from a distance, he heard Nathan quietly move around until a breeze of cool air hit his skin and the blanket shifted. The drummer blinked when he felt Nathan's body heat below the cover next to him now. Someone tugged at the pillow below his head and he lifted it with a groan of protest.

"Shut up," Nathan whispered, now really close to his face. "Go to sleep."

Pickles was too tired to respond. It didn't really matter and he didn't really mind. This was Nathan, after all. That guy was practially essential to his life now.


End file.
